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Blood bones and butter5/12/2023 Hamilton nimbly cranks up her own literary time machine to transport us back to the hippie-ish world of rural Pennsylvania in the 1970s, and to New York City at the height of the coke-and-urban-cowboy era of the ’80s. Hamilton’s childhood was abruptly shattered when her parents separated, and memories of their “luminous parties” and the meals they’d shared as a family would shape her adult life, from her marriage into an Italian family that shared her passion for food to her opening of a New York City restaurant named Prune, which would win kudos from critics for its homey, rustic cooking. In preparation Gabrielle and her sister and brothers would fill dozens of brown paper lunch bags with sand and candles and set them along the stream’s edge under the weeping willows to light everyone’s way, and juice up glow-in-the-dark Frisbees in the car headlights, so they could send those “glowing greenish discs arcing through the jet black night.” When Gabrielle Hamilton was a child, growing up in Pennsylvania, her family gave an annual party that was legendary in its small town a spring lamb roast for almost 200 people, who came from as far away as New York City: former ballet dancer friends of her mother’s and artist friends of her father’s, along with local friends and neighbors, who all gathered in the meadow behind their house to feast on lamb and asparagus vinaigrette and shortcake.
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